


Overtime (Fool Me Again Series)

by JohnQKole



Category: Castle (TV 2009)
Genre: F/M, One Shot, Season/Series 02, Smut, fool me again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-27 21:16:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20767079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JohnQKole/pseuds/JohnQKole
Summary: One-shot follow up to "Fool Me Again." After their Halloween fling, things cooled off between Beckett and Castle. Castle thinks a little undercover work might be the solution.





	Overtime (Fool Me Again Series)

**A/N-This is my one-shot, set in the “Fool Me Again” universe. You don’t necessarily have to read that one first, but it provides context. I’ve attempted to loosely follow along with events in season 2, but there are implied cases in between and a few very obvious changes. And, yeah, parts are definite “stretches.”**

**I was a bit loose with perspective, and this is another one of those “fun, flirty, and smutty” ones that doesn’t really have much substance, but I hope it’s enjoyable.**

**This was inspired by a suggestion from neilin. I know it’s not _exactly_ what was requested, but I hope it was worth the wait.**

**As to my other running story, I’m pretty well along with that chapter, too, so shouldn’t be too much longer. **

* * *

** Overtime (_Fool Me Again _Series) **

Beckett’s visit to the ME’s office is supposed to be routine, and after business is conducted she intends to talk Lanie into getting drinks. Lanie answers each of Beckett’s case-related questions tersely, scowling over a corpse unrelated to Beckett’s case.

“What is it with you?” Beckett asks.

“What is it with _me_? What is it with _you_?” Lanie snaps.

“Okay, I’m lost.”

“And clueless.”

“What the hell, Lanie?”

“What’s going on with you and Castle?”

“Nothing. Everything’s fine.”

“_Fine_?”

“Yes. We’re fine. Why?”

“You should be a hell of a lot more than _fine._ The two of you have some crazy hookup, both show up here glowing like fireworks…leave here practically eye-fucking in my morgue…and now you’re ‘fine’?”

“It was a one-time thing.”

“Clearly math wasn’t your subject. I count two times you took that man home.”

“Yeah, but really it counts as one lapse in judgment. It was a long night with a murder investigation in the middle.”

“So what happened? He didn’t live up to the hype?”

“The hype was appropriate,” Beckett notes clinically.

Lanie whispers, wrinkling her nose with disappointment, “Was he…you know,” she makes a gesture with her fingers showing a tiny gap between her thumb and forefinger, “small?”

“No,” Kate chuckles over the suggestion and shakes her head, trying to concentrate on the file before her. More soberly, she says, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Ignoring her completely, Lanie accuses, “Then _you_ chose not to continue because of work! You have got to stop putting corpses above your own satisfaction.”

“It’s not that. It wasn’t a serious thing. And shortly after that he was already exploring other options, so—”

“Did you ever stop to think that maybe he was exploring other, older options because his ego was bruised after you rejected him? And then that exploration then bruised your ego.”

“I didn’t reject him.”

“What happened when you talked about what went on between you two?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Because we…didn’t talk about it—"

“—Of course you didn’t—”

“Now we’ve done it and…tension diffused, mystery solved, case closed.”

“You are a _liar_, Katherine Beckett. I’ve seen the two of you together. The tension is worse than it was before.”

“Well, if it’s worse, that’s probably a sign that sleeping with someone you work with isn’t a good idea.”

“Not that kind of tension. The _I want to get un-dressed-up and have you for dinner _kind of tension.”

“Hey, Beckett,” Castle says as he bursts in, unaware of what he’s walking into, “boys told me you were here, I was just—“ he stops dead in his tracks as Lanie scowls at him with such burning fury that his hand goes to his chest to cover the wounds she may have left.

“Castle, what are you doing here?” Lanie gripes.

“Looking for…” his eyes dart back and forth between the women, pointing at the one he was searching for before he continues, “Beckett. Did I…do something?”

“I knew you couldn't handle it.”

“Handle what?” he asks, looking like he’s stepped into a firestorm, glancing back to the door like he’s considering just walking away. Curiosity keeps him there. 

“She’s cranky,” Kate says as she puts her hands on his shoulders, turns him around and practically shoves him out the swinging doors, following closely behind.

“You know what makes me cranky?” Lanie shouts after them, “Stubborn people and their own stupidity. _That’s_ what makes me cranky.”

“What’s bothering her?” he asks once they’re in Beckett’s squad car.

“Nothing.”

“Who’s the stupid, stubborn person she mentioned?”

“We are.”

“We are? ‘We’ as in ‘me’ also? What did I do?”

“It’s not what you did as much as what you didn’t do.”

“Didn’t do...I missed her birthday? No present!”

“Do you even know when her birthday is?”

“No. Which is a pretty good excuse for why I missed it.”

“It wasn’t her birthday. Drop it. Trust me.”

“You said ‘we’ and ‘we’ includes you, so it isn’t something that I alone did…” Castle pesters for answers until Beckett becomes annoyed enough to respond. 

“Oh my god, stop!” she shouts. “She’s annoyed we aren’t still having sex.”

“You and Lanie?” he gasps.

“No, Castle. ‘We’ as in you and I.”

“Oh.” 

As if on cue, they get a call about their case, and they’re back to work.

* * *

Later that day in the car after questioning a witness, he asks, “I mean…it is a _little_ strange, don’t you think?” 

“The case?”

“The fact that you and I had sex, _really phenomenal _sex, and then inexplicably stopped.”

“It’s not inexplicable.”

“Okay. Enlighten me,” he requests.

“It's not complicated. We...met up and had a one-time thing. Nothing more to explain. Happens all the time.”

“Okay.” He drums his fingers on the glove box, making it clear that he’s thinking and has something to say, but is waiting for her to prompt him.

“What?” she barks impatiently.

“It wasn’t exactly a ‘one-time thing.’ Times can be counted in different ways, but I feel regardless of your measuring system we ‘met up’ at least twice. Two separate invitations to your apartment.”

“You weren’t invited the first time. You followed.”

“Shadowed,” he insists. “And you didn’t stop me or in any way dissuade that shadowing.”

“Fine. Twice,” she concedes, trying to put the topic to bed.

“But two visits doesn’t capture the number of distinct encounters. Really…going down on you for a half hour should count as a round all by itself, don’t you think?”

“Just shh-ushh!” she yells, smacking his arm and admonishing him for his plain disclosure of recent occurrences.

“What? No one can hear us.”

“It wasn’t a half hour.”

“Umm, it was. I was there. And apparently, it was so good it warped your sense of time. Then, of course, the whole cowgirl deal in your bed. And that round was so good, you postponed answering a work phone call...at least for a couple of minutes before you answered anyway.”

“We have to list all of the positions?”

“Have to? No. But it’s kind of fun. The next day…you invited me back again. How many rounds would you say that day? You completely redefined my expectations for oral sex, the ramifications having a lifelong impact on—“

“Four then,” she interrupts. “Four rounds the second day. Are we done now?”

“So a total of six. Not bad for under 36 hours of ‘togetherness,’ wouldn’t you agree?”

“Why are we talking about this?”

“You brought it up.”

“Because you nagged me. And it was Lanie who brought it up. She’s more worried about it than we are. I told her, you and I are fine.”

“Yea! We’re fine. Absolutely…fine_._” 

They ride a few moments, Beckett taking a quick call from Ryan, and just after she ends the call, Castle continues, “But it is weird, though. I mean amazing sex and then—wait… You _do_ agree it was amazing, right? If not, I deserve a second chance…or third chance…or maybe seventh chance. Again, it all depends on your measuring system.”

“Yea, I agree. It was great,” she admits, answering like the truth is being dragged from her soul. “_Was,” _she emphasizes.

“So why did we stop?”

“Hayley Blue case, Alexis was upset, you went home a lot. One of us decided he preferred to spend his time with escorts—"

"— how many times do I have to tell you it wasn't like that. Although… jealousy is a beautiful color on you."

"Not jealous."

"You sure? Because we wrapped that case up a while ago. Maybe you're harboring wounded feelings?"

"And then Alexis did her internship at the precinct, so you were hanging out with her. You had something going on with your ex-girlfriend—”

“The amount of envy you have over one kiss is very telling. But, okay, answer this: had I been truly tempted to pursue more, what was stopping me? You didn’t express any interest.”

“You didn’t ask. And then you made your choice,” she coolly notes, eyes tacked to the road before them. 

“Yes. I _did_ make my choice. And if you remember, I took you as my date to her wedding. Last I checked, I am both single and available.”

“You never said anything about what happened, and it just sort of…faded.”

“_I_ never said anything? _You_ never said anything.”

“Like what? ‘Geez, Castle, I know your daughter needs you right now, but can you phone in the father-stuff and stop over by my place?"

"Maybe...you're trying to hide the fact that you feel a little insecure—“

"I am not _insecure_. My point is that time passed, and the more time passed, the weirder it seemed to bring it up again." She mumbles under her breath, “Certainly feels pretty weird right now.”

“It’s only been, what…a month?”

“Six weeks,” she replies before she thinks it’s best not to.

“Not that you’ve been counting.”

“Says the man who has multiple methods for counting the number of times we’ve…”

“We’ve what?” he mischievously pushes.

“You know what we did.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

“Oh yea? Well too bad! I don’t say things just because you want me to. Besides, I said it earlier. It’s not my fault if you weren’t listening.”

“Fine. But I’m not embarrassed about what we did. I didn’t realize you were.”

“I’m not _embarrassed_. Our situation is complicated enough. And I don’t want to mess things up just because we’ve…”

“Stuck there again, huh?”

“Had a couple of encounters,” she finishes the thought.

“’Encounters’ makes it sound so ordinary. You and I…lightyears beyond anything even vaguely resembling ordinary. ”

“So it’s not enough that I’ve said it. I have to use the words you want? I’m not some character you can write lines for.”

“I’m not telling you _which_ words to use. Just suggesting there’s got to be another way to say it that captures the spirit of those—“

“—encounters?—“

“—_moments_. There’s a vast array, an entire rainbow of words and phrases that could be used. We had sex…screwed around. Had a rendezvous…or a tryst. A scandalous fling. A passionate night…and afternoon…and evening. Intercourse is definitely not my favorite and a bit limited, so we’ll scratch that one off the list. Then we could explore more contemporary phraseology. Hooked up. Banged. Bumped ug—“

“We fucked. Okay?” she interrupts loudly. “We did. And it was really great, and I have no regrets, and I’m not embarrassed. Is that all cleared up?”

“Seems pretty clear from here. And, for the record...any time you want to use your wiles to lure me in and have your way with me—”

“Wait, wait,” she argues furtively, “I..._lured_ you?”

“Not that I minded.”

“You are _delusional_.”

“I was under your spell.”

“Oh, please. You followed me home, practically got down on your knees before I even knew something was going on.”

“You _knew_ something was going on, that something has _always_ been going on. You’ve wanted me from the moment we met.”

“Is that so? That’s why I turned you down when you asked me out after that first case then?”

“Had nothing to do with you not wanting me.”

“Had _everything_ to do with not wanting you.”

“No. You thought I was a dangerous choice. A wild choice. Unpredictable. Just because you were too scared to go for it, doesn’t mean you didn’t want to.”

“Is that what you say to all women who don’t want you? They’re too scared? What’s next, you gonna dare me to fuck you again?”

“Would it work?”

“No. _You_ wanted _me,_ Castle, from the very beginning. And you’ve had me already, and _still_ want me. Admit it.”

“You admit it.”

“Admitting it would be a lie.”

“You are so infuriating sometimes. Why can’t you just accept the fact that, whether you should or not, _You_. _Want_. _Me_. If you can just admit that one little fact, that one oversight in otherwise perfect judgment...maybe I can help you out.”

“Help me out? I don’t need your _help_. You admit it. Admit that in spite of my good judgment and common sense...I turn you on. You. Want. Me.”

"I don't deny that." Then he argues stubbornly, “Just not as much as you want me.”

Of course this means neither will admit to much of anything. 

* * *

During the next three days, Castle tries to make sure she remembers how much she wants him. He dives into the case, showcasing his crime solving talents, spinning stories meant to intrigue. He wears a cologne he’s pretty sure she likes, teases and presses buttons just enough. 

And he touches her. 

It’s nothing that crosses lines, nowhere near that. But after he hands her coffee and the tips of her fingers briefly rub against his, he sees the jolt she feels. Hell, he feels it, too. 

So those touches are limited to brushing forearms when looking over the same pictures, or shoulders when staring at murder boards, or those glancing encounters when objects like dry erase markers, folders, or mugs are passed between them. And he doesn’t force those encounters; the opportunities present themselves regularly. 

The other partner involved in this elaborate dance is Beckett. She ups her game, too, in the same understated ways. She dresses only a little more provocatively. The biggest thing he notices is the way she holds his eyes, maintains long stares so charged and intimate it speeds up his pulse. Whether she smiles or scowls or holds that deep-in-thought look, he can feel her reaching out to him. She manages to bite her lip in that way that makes him want a taste, and walk away with the right amount of sway that makes his mind race. 

Words can’t encapsulate the forces at play between them. Sadly, it seems, those forces are more centrifugal than gravitational, the two spinning apart rather than coming together.

After the case is wrapped, he doesn’t have the chance to talk to her because she hurries off on some task Montgomery sends her on. 

Four days pass without a call or a case. He wonders if she's thought of him and their conversation (he sure as hell has) or if she ran off for a few wild nights with the next guy she saw just to prove she’s unattached to her partner in crime-solving. 

So Castle decides to go down to the precinct to pick up a small notebook that he left on the edge of Beckett’s desk. (He always leaves _something _there so he’ll have an excuse to go to the precinct if he needs one).

It’s late, and he hopes to find Beckett doing paperwork at her desk, or engaging in some boring task that leaves her nearly alone in their section of the floor just waiting for a distraction.

He approaches her desk and finds it empty, her mug cold and coffeeless, so she’s probably not even there. Deciding to leave the notebook so he can pretend he forgot it another day, he turns and sees Beckett walking toward him wearing something she’s obviously only put on to do undercover work (a tight skirt, tall boots, a heavy leather jacket and a shirt with veeing neckline that he feels is really an arrow). Maybe he arrived just in time. _Undercover can be fun_. 

He isn’t fond of Detective Universe, though, the guy she’s walking beside. He's new. Castle doesn’t like this man’s imposing stature, or wide shoulders, or the way Beckett is laughing at his joke.

The thing Castle dislikes most of all is the way Universe says, “It’s been a pleasure. You really saved my ass out there. Any time you’re looking to take a step up and out of little league_..._give me a call. Or call just...to call.” He shakes her hand, holding it between both of his, and leans forward, kissing Beckett’s cheek for a second too long. And she doesn’t tense or pull away like she most certainly should. 

Beckett is mere feet from her desk when she finally notices Castle (another thing he doesn’t like because the forces at play between them should have gotten her Spidey senses tingling before she could see him), and she says with little interest, “Oh, hey, Castle. What are you doing here?”

“I forgot my…” he looks around for a second, trying to remember which prop he left here. “...my notebook.”

Castle turns to the offending male in the room and awaits an introduction. 

“This is Special Agent Titus Ryker, he’s DEA,” Beckett explains. 

“Agent Ryker, this is Richard Castle, he’s a writer who shadows me.”

“I do more than shadow,” Castle defends.

“Nice to meet you,” Ryker says, with a perfect smile and those little side twinkles in the corners of his irises. He has a scar along his cheek. It’s the perfect kind, one that’s enough to profess his toughness, but not enough to ruin his good looks. 

Ryker steps away to take a call, and Castle asks Beckett, “What’s going on?” (Of course even as he’s a bit jealous, he’s checking out her outfit.)

“What do you mean ‘what’s going on’?” she answers.

“You shopping for new partners?”

“DEA needed someone local, a new face. I helped out for a quick undercover investigation. I could use the overtime.”

“Groping you like that while on duty seems really unprofessional,” he notes.

“_Groping_ me?” she scoffs. “Too bad I missed that part. Might’ve been fun. And it’s really great...you calling someone _else_ unprofessional.”

“He was all over you.”

“It was a kiss…’just a kiss’, isn’t that what you call them? And it was on my cheek. I didn’t mind.”

“Yea, I could tell.”

“Now who’s jealous?”

“I’m not.” He frowns. “Maybe I am a little, but—”

“Listen, Beckett,” Ryker interrupts as he returns, “any chance I could use you for another hour or two. We have a chance to grab one of Newberry’s known associates at a pop-up warehouse rave. I have a password, but need someone who doesn’t look like a cop to get us in. One of the players might make me, so I can’t go.”

“Sure,” she replies, looking at the photos and data available on the person they’re pursuing, as well as information on the location of the rave.

Castle eagerly responds, “You know...this would be a great opportunity for me to do some shadowing. And Beckett and I are an exceptional team.”

“I can’t sanction sending in a civilian,” Ryker says like Castle isn't almost a cop (_really he is…)_

“You wouldn’t be sending me in. I’d be shadowing Beckett like I always do. I already signed about six dozen waivers.”

“What do you think, Beckett? It’s pretty low risk. We just need you to get in, confirm eyes on the suspect, call in a confirmation and time of departure. We want to get him on the way out anyway...reduce the risk of civilian casualties. Honestly, you could go in yourself, you don’t really need a partner.” 

“Come on,” Castle urges, “It’ll be fun!” 

She steps up to him, always in his space like she’s daring him to act. “You can come, _if_...you remember this is surveillance only. Observe and report...that’s it. We clear?”

“Perfectly.”

“These guys are serious players, not runners and foot soldiers.”

“Observe and report only,” he parrots.

Beckett leaves for a moment, going to Montgomery’s office since he’s working quite late. Ryker receives a call, and then informs Castle that the suspect they were supposed to observe tried to flee and was apprehended already, and there’s no longer a need for them to go to the club. 

Ryker is pacing impatiently as he waits for Beckett to leave Montgomery’s office, looking at his watch and in her direction.

“Big plans?” Castle asks, hoping to hear this DEA guy has a wife or a girlfriend or someone he needs to get home to. 

“Just uh…” Ryker looks at Castle and shrugs, “You know.”

“Yeah. Look, I can tell Beckett the investigation has been called off. I’ll wait for her.”

“Umm,” Ryker considers the options, then says, “Sure. Thanks. And tell her I’ll give her a call tomorrow about this weekend.”

“Sure,” Rick replies, frowning fleetingly once Ryker leaves.

The thing is, this opportunity is way too good to pass up. Beckett dressed like that, the pair of them in some club, dancing to try to fit in. And, yes, he feels a little guilty about the lie, but he’ll try to lie as little as possible, justifying it because she had agreed to take him to the club as long as they’d 'observe and report,’ and that is exactly what he intends to do. _Although drugs and drug dealers will not be the focus of the investigation. _

“You okay?” she asks, breaking his concentration when she returns and takes a seat at her desk.

“Yea. Good. Ready to go do some observing and reporting?” he jumps forward with the lie, taking his seat next to hers. “Ryker’s team will be outside the warehouse.” (Technically it’s not a lie...they will all be outside the warehouse...somewhere.)

She nods, but after several seconds, and of course it makes him wonder what she’s thinking about. Maybe she’s studying, seeing right through him. 

When she speaks, she finally agrees, “Yeah.”

* * *

She makes him wait in the car outside her place when she briefly stops. (He tells himself it’s because she can’t resist him if they’re alone in her apartment.) Oddly enough, she doesn’t ask about the details of the sting, maybe assuming she’ll call in the information once the suspect is found (which clearly won’t happen since he’s in custody). Castle will have to find the right way to reveal the truth before she attempts to call Ryker. And, yes, on some level, he knows this is a risky move, that Beckett may get _very_ irritated with him, but he’s not afraid to gamble.

An hour later, they’re approaching the warehouse. Beckett gives the password to the guy at the door, and the two are granted entrance. The bouncer whispers something to her, and she threads her arm through Castle’s and walks with him. It feels so good, so promising, to have her close to him again, even if under false pretenses.

At first there is nothing much to see, just a wide, empty hall that stretches in both directions. He worries for a moment that this is a setup, and the two are in real danger (and without backup), but he can hear the music vibrating through the thick concrete walls. 

They open the heavy steel doors at the end of the hall, and the beat slaps the pair as they step inside. 

When Castle goes out, the clubs he visits typically have valet parking, overpriced drinks, and private bodyguard-style security. 

This place is raw. Lights are few, revelers are those who are plugged in to the underground scene. Bars are on either side of the space, thrown together at the last minute like everything else here. Walls are covered in graffiti. There aren’t sofas and fancy barstools. Bodies are packed in tightly, wrapped in darkness and the smells of alcohol, pheromones, and sweat.

Beckett looks oddly at home for the number of criminal and safety violations that are occurring. 

She buys them drinks, and the alcohol tastes cheap in the plastic cup, being consumed simply for intoxication and not at all for the flavor. As he swallows down what tastes like jet fuel, she’s busy scanning the crowd, searching for a suspect she’ll never find. 

Just as he considers mentioning that she’s having a drink while on the job, she tosses her cup into the industrial-sized garbage can and takes him by the hand onto the floor. Maybe she didn’t really drink anything at all, or ordered water. He doesn’t know for certain. She doesn’t dance on the edge (easy to get to and quick to vacate). She pulls him deep into the crowd. 

Beckett dances as one of many here tonight, although she’s really dancing _with _him. She’s against him, her hands sometimes meeting his body, her thighs often brushing his. Such a tightly packed space has challenges and opportunities. The curse of this mob is that he’s so close he can barely see her or the way she moves, can’t get a sliver of space even when he could use a tiny bit of distance. But the blessings are many, the crowd pushing them closer as she uses him as a companion to make her presence here appear more natural. 

She is far more at ease here than he. Her wrist drapes over his shoulder, bringing the front of her body more completely against his. When her face comes closer, his pulse quickens, her mouth moving toward his ear so he can hear above the thickness of the noise around them. “You okay?” she asks at a heightened volume, although he still has to strain to hear.

He nods his head, turning to look at her, the urge to kiss her screaming at him from inside his head. 

“Relax,” she says, something touching his earlobe (maybe her lip, maybe her nose). The last time she was so close to him was when they had their erotic marathon a few weeks ago, and clips of those moments barrel in (like he needs anything else to be arousing right now). 

She takes his hands, placing them low on her back, a directorial move she also employed when they had sex, because she's quite comfortable demonstrating what she wants. It takes him right back to those shared hours. This whole situation is more arousing than he’d anticipated. 

Her eyes meet his, barely visible in the darkness here, but he can see the wanting behind them as blue, pink, purple, and green flashing lights alternate their turns across her face. It’s a look he’s hoped for, longed to see, and he should be thrilled she’s looking at him like this. 

Except she’s here because of a big, fat lie. And the longer this goes on, the more infuriated he thinks she’ll be when he tells her. 

“Beckett, I have to tell you something. It's funny, in a way,” he says, leaning back so he can see her expression and monitor her reaction.

She points to her ear and shakes her head to indicate she can’t hear anything he’s saying. He leans in, his eyes finding her neck as his brain orders him not to indulge in a taste of her skin, and he says, “Listen, I—”

But her hands tightly grab the caps of his shoulders as she declares with certainty, “There he is. That’s Brandon Dayton.”

“Who?” Castle asks, his fingertips meeting at her spine while his hands tighten around her (and, yeah, she’s still dancing).

“You forget why we’re here?” she teases. “Dayton...the suspect. We need to see what he’s up to and call it in.”

“Uh,” he knows calling it in is a bad idea, but is too preoccupied by the memories of her gasping in his ear about much more pleasant topics to recall the exact reason _why_. Then he remembers they aren’t really on a case at all, “No! I don’t think that’s him.”

“It’s him.”

“It can’t be.”

“That’s him. I’m sure of it.”

Her fingers slip down his chest, and she’s still continuing this show so they're camouflaged, and it’s only making the truth that much harder to share. 

“We have to get to the other side of the room,” she says. “He’s moving toward that door.”

“Beckett, wait—”

But she turns, grabbing his hand, threading through the bobbing crowd toward the bar that is located closest to the direction she wants to go. She pauses and orders them each another drink, and this time, he watches the liquor being portioned into each cup. (He also pays this time, even though it’s probably the strangest date he’s been on, he feels he should.) 

The whole time, she’s looking beyond him like her eyes are on a suspect who cannot possibly be there. She downs her drink before he has even has a sip. If the typical amount of oxygen was available to his brain, her second drink of the night while working would raise some serious red flags.

Once he empties his cup, she nods toward the heavy double doors and slips through. They close with a deafening crash behind them, and she says, “He went back this way.” 

The possibility that maybe there is a real suspect dawns on Castle, and he knows this might be dangerous since no one is waiting to help them. He mentions, “Is this safe for us to do without backup or—”

“Ryker’s people are waiting. If they don’t hear from us soon, I’m sure they’ll send someone in to check it out.”

“Look, Beckett, I need to talk to you,” he says, determined now to share the truth for multiple reasons. “I may not have been entirely forthcoming. There’s no backup—”

The door at the far end opens enough to allow more light in the hall, and Beckett grabs his arms as she mumbles, “Someone’s coming,” and pulls him against her with her back to the wall.

Her arm goes around him, one hand curling around the back of his head, her short nails gently scratching his scalp and causing shivers. Lips already parted, her mouth comes to his, and the kiss is instantly intense, like they’d been making out for a while, building up to this. _She’s so good at undercover. _

At first he’s very aware of the footsteps that are approaching, but soon he forgets. He forgets because she’s kissing him like this, her tongue massaging his and drawing forth all kinds of sensations and inspirations. He forgets because her body is smashed against him, and he wants to peel off her clothes and feel the softness of her skin. He forgets because he remembers the way she pulsed around him when he was inside her, and the way she nipped his shoulder, and the way she quivered as she came. The memory of this woman is not easily forgotten or dismissed. 

And with these distracting memories, he continues kissing her rather than paying any mind to the circumstances that have brought them here.

When her mouth abruptly leaves his (long before he’s ready), and she scans the hall around them, he notes the way his hands are on her, one with a firm grasp on her hip and one quite low on the small of her back. He wonders if he’s supposed to be unaffected by the feeling of her body, and if it’s possible she’s unaffected. 

“I think he’s gone,” Beckett whispers with an unsteadiness in her voice that makes him hopeful she’s _feeling _this as strongly as he is.

“Who?” Castle asks, nuzzling against her neck, kissing the spots he already knows (_from experience_) to be erogenous. 

She talks about the case (but doesn’t stop him), and he remembers that he’s gotten himself into this position (excited and wanting, pressing her into the wall as they struggle for normal breath together) because she thinks they’re on a case. 

There’s a noise at the end of the hall, and she says, “Someone else is coming.” She manages to wriggle free and orders, “Let’s go.”

He follows her, half-stunned, having internal arguments between the parts of him that are turned on, the parts that feel like he should be honest, and the parts that are a little worried that there could be a real suspect when they have no backup.

She carefully walks up the back stairs, dirt and god knows what else crunching under his shoes. They’re on a partial second floor, finding offices that once looked out over the work area below. Slipping into one of the rooms, she locks the door behind them and catches her breath for a moment. 

He watches while she peeks through the slat blinds and searches the floor below. High windows on the outside wall of the office let in moonlight, enough to see her face and the alluring look on it. 

The thing is, if she looks this way because of a kiss that’s built on a _lie,_ she might be angry enough when the truth surfaces to kick him out of her life again like she did a few months ago. He will do almost anything to prevent that from happening. 

Tentativeness is entirely absent when she strides right up to him, their bodies sharing the same zone of personal space. When her eyes lock on his, her lips making contact seconds later, there is no hesitation. After all, they both admitted this attraction the last time they let their guard down. 

He’s not even sure what it is about kissing her that is so hot. It feels like his spine is on fire with the voltage that passes from her into him. 

He hums a deep tone of approval before he gathers strength and control, deciding he has to come clean before things progress further. “Beckett, I need to confess something,” he manages to say, and although she meets his eyes and appears to listen, her body is still against his, his knee warmly nestled between her legs, both pairs of hands still on each other. 

The music is quieter up here, away from the crowd, so he hears her even when her voice says more softly, “Interesting choice of words.”

“Why’s that?”

“I have this precinct fantasy. Want to hear it?”

“Uhhh. Yes. I certainly—” he interrupts himself, “wait. There’s something I need to tell you first.”

“What? You want me to call in the suspect, alert Ryker's team?” she asks, her tone nearing playful.

He nervously shakes his head, “I should have told you this before. I’m really sorry. They caught Dayton before we left. Ryker called off the—”

“I know,” she interrupts, staring. “You think I’d drink on duty? Risk someone else’s case by messing around with you? You know me better than that.”

“You knew the whole time?”

“I saw Ryker on his way out. This isn’t even the same warehouse.”

“How’d you find this place? Or know the password?”

“You think I spend all my nights doing paperwork? I’ve been to my share of parties, Castle, had more than one wild night out. I know how to find fun when I want to.”

“You...go to places like this often?”

“Not much lately, but I have. At times.”

“If you knew there was no case, why play along?” he asks, his mind racing, body hopeful, heart guarded.

Now she needs a moment, looking just as hopeful but guarded. With precision, she replies, “Probably for the same reason as you. We're attracted to each other, right? We both know it, so I don’t know why we bother denying it."

He nods, half brain dead. 

"So we can argue about who wants whom more, or who wanted it first…but this," her groping hands roam, "this feels better than being right."

"It clearly does."

"I want to be with you again. Do you? Do you...wanna be with me?”

He’s not sure what ‘be with’ entails, if she’s considering more than a follow up to their last fling. She’s pretty direct, about cases or opinions or sex, so typically he’d imagine a more to-the-point ‘wanna fuck’ as her way of asking the question. But no matter what she _means_ by her question, the answer is yes.

He bobs his head after he realizes he’s left the question unanswered for too long. “I definitely do.”

Shaking off her nerves, she adds with a sexy, mischievous smile, "So...do you wanna hear about the fantasy I have?” She pushes closer to him, her hand moving under his jacket against his shirt. “The one where we’re in the observation room overlooking interrogation?”

“I...would love to hear that.”

“Good,” she says, offering the most fleeting of kisses. 

His hands hook behind her just to hold her close, and as he sees her face so near his, looks into her eyes. It feels so fulfilling simply having her in his arms, looking at him this way again. Whether he wants to admit it or not, for him, it isn’t _just_ sex. He knows, too, that for her, maybe sex is all it is. 

This situation (or maybe more accurately this _woman_) has the potential to hurt him, to leave a wound that won’t easily be overlooked. That doesn’t stop him, or even give him significant pause. 

They kiss with more patience when he instigates such contact, touching each other’s clothed bodies far longer than they did the last time they caved in to their desires. He tries to swallow her up in his arms. 

The way she kisses, the taste and feeling of her mouth, the sensation of her fingers moving over him, are all perfectly remembered from the last time. That hint of familiarity in something mostly new is sort of enticing. He knows this somewhat forbidden touch.

She breaks, a bit dizzy and stunned from their session, and whispers, “I’m not sure exactly when it started, but I was in bed one night—”

“—alone? Or with someone who was disappointingly not me?”

She stares, weighing the options of truth, lies, or deflection. But she selects truth and admits, “Alone. We just solved a case, and I remembered standing in that room next to you while Espo and Ryan finished questioning a different suspect—”

“Because they were wrong...as usual. But we weren’t.”

“Exactly,” she chuckles, her hand pressed to his chest, fingertips briefly noting the thud of his heartbeat before moving behind his back. “But you stood near me, too close really, my shoulder almost touching your chest.”

She turns and shows him, the pair both facing the window, the back of her shoulder resting against his chest, in this room that is covered with dingy but functioning blinds as if it were the window overlooking interrogation. 

“Then what happens?” he asks, trying to listen but finding his lips moving toward her shoulder, a spot far too often covered by her clothing. She gasps for him, immediate and unhindered, like she is required to do so as much as he is required to kiss her there.

His hand moves up the back of her neck, the other resting low on her belly, holding her exactly where he wants her. He loves the way she enjoys this, the heaviness in her voice as she moans or tries to speak, the way her breath remains higher in her lungs and quicker from excitement, the way her pulse bounces more hurriedly. 

She continues, “I—I tell you you have to be quiet. I lock the door—”

“Can you even do that?”

“It’s my fantasy...I—” she gasps as his touch grows bolder, and clutches his hip behind her, ordering more contact before she continues, “I can do whatever the hell I want.”

“Good point,” he says as his kisses move to her jaw below her ear, playing her like he is indeed a master of this gorgeous instrument. “Don’t stop,” he requests. 

“I lock the door and stand between you and the window. Your hand braces on the wall next to it.”

He complies with the ideas laid forth in her mind, his hand resting on the wooden frame at the edge of the window, allowing her body only the limited space between the wall by the window and his body. She turns in that space to face him. 

She takes a second for evaluation, like she often does, and he wonders if this is a moment of clarity for her. But her eyes are heavy, her breath still tense, and her mouth is offered to his without the invisible barrier they often keep between them. For that moment, she seems open to him, available to touch, willing to acknowledge the possibilities.

She tugs up his shirt, fingers of both hands spreading across the lower part of his stomach.

“Then what?” he gently urges, feeling the powerful pull of the desire to crash into her, bring her legs over her hips, and get lost in her. But then again, when is that urge not present, somewhere beneath the surface? It’s just so much more salient since those thoughts recently became reality. 

“I’ll show you.” 

Lifting his shirt enough to access his belt, she opens it while her eyes are fixed on his. That stare is full of teases and promises that flood him with a new burst of longing. The gaze holds while she opens the button, lowers the zipper, never turning away for a second, not an ounce of embarrassment, regret, or hesitation visible. 

She yanks his shirt higher, his jacket still on, nipping at his nipple, pressing her lips over his heart, and descending with a slow tease down his ribs and to his stomach while her hand sits warmly against his sex over his boxers.

Beckett drops down before him, lowering slowly, eyes staring up at his as she pulls his pants and boxers to mid-thigh. Her hand cups his sac as she softly kisses the head of his cock. She's forgone any play of subtlety, exploring his shaft with her tongue, licking like she doesn’t want to miss a millimeter. The world around him melts away, the party just one floor below them, the dinginess of this dilapidated office, the deception that brought them here, all vanish.

He swears she can hear his thoughts. 

She would argue that she can, taking cues, but also withholding just enough to build anticipation. She wants him to want her even as she reclaims him.

As much as the desire for completion sits temptingly near, he won't rush her, wouldn't even dream of it. Every move, every lick, is intentional, purposeful, and masterful (much like she does everything in her life). And she handles him with the same care he employs with her, and that fact alone is additionally arousing. 

When she decides she’s ready (not a moment before or after) she takes him into her mouth, the pattern emerging: quick, quick, slow...quick, quick slow. And each quick dip has less pressure but takes him fully. The slow ones are tighter, with firmer suction that almost finishes him each time she does it. His eyes close because they must, because it’s too much to watch, but as his eyes close, there is also nothing in the world that could distract him from this. All he knows right now is her. 

As he feels the resistance at the back of her mouth, the talented twirling of her tongue, the pull of her lips sliding over him, her thumb and forefinger at a tight “L” at the base of his shaft, he fights harder to squelch the urge to speed things up. This is far too good to hurry. 

Basic needs drive him, while more chivalrous ones remind him she's in need of attention. 

As much as he hopes to be a sort of maestro for her, her body, her needs, he knows too well she’s the same for him, even in this state of somewhat stripped down existence where thought is minimal and physical experience is maximized. He knows it even better when she changes her pattern to something unbroken and even, speed accelerating slightly with each pass and breaking the very last of his resistance.

She doesn't back down, doesn't ease, until he's emptied of his longing. For now.

His heart is in his throat, beating so harshly it jars him. As it slowly descends to where it belongs, he notes the dense mind fog that begins to clear, feeling like his soles finally sink fully onto the concrete floor once again. 

Castle helps her up, pulling her chest against his, holding tightly as he slightly leans in. From only that touch (and a healthy dose of memory recall and anticipation), a less than subtle moan escapes her lips. 

A proud part of her whispers that she should resist this, maybe make him pay for the way he thought he could so easily deceive her. Did he really think she would be fooled by this fake surveillance opportunity?

She knew the truth of his plan from the start, but she did underestimate how drawn in she would be, discount the way being here like this with him would affect her. The beat that orders the floor of dancers when to move is not nearly as dominant as the pulse in her core, the one that never lets her forget what she wants. 

They managed to do this before, to have a fling that was satisfying (more than) and to walk back into work as normal in the days that followed. Maybe it shouldn’t have been so easy. 

Of course the last time, there had been a series of distractions. And in truth, it wasn’t as easy as she wants to pretend it had been. 

_What if he gets clingy this time, or pushes for more? Or worse, maybe...what if he doesn’t?_

It’s hard to tell if she’ll get what she wants when she’s not even sure what that is. 

There are certain elements she knows painfully well that she craves. She wants him, his body on hers, with hers, in hers. 

She wants that closeness.

His arms are tight around her, crushing her body to his, letting her know that in spite of the fact that he’s had some relief, they’re far from done. But she knew that before she even started. 

“Why in the hell did we stop?” he asks, and she can feel his touch against her back beneath her top.

Her brow furrows with a bit of confused disappointment, and she shrugs and finally answers, “Are we stopping? Figured I’d give you a minute.”

He chuckles, shaking his head as his fingers climb higher up her back and unhook her bra. “I _meant_...before. The last time. Why did it take so long to get back here again?”

“Oh,” she looks down at his shoulder for a moment, gathering thoughts before she returns to the open and indomitable stare she’s mastered. “We just did. I mean...it’s not like you invited me to brunch the next day. In fact you didn’t try anything. Didn’t say anything. I was starting to wonder if I imagined the whole thing. Or maybe…”

“Maybe what?”

“Maybe you _wanted_ to forget. To pretend it didn’t happen because you knew it was a mistake.” She wishes the heightened levels of arousal weren’t messing with her mind and loosening her lips. 

His expression is one of nearly epic discomfort as he pauses forever. “I—I wanted to...to say something. To keep going. I didn’t push, didn’t want you to kick me off your cases. Having work...having _something..._with you is better than having nothing.”

With a healthy dose of disbelief and a tinge of frustration, she replies, “You _never_ hold back a single thought that comes to your mind. You indulge in _every_ ridiculous want the second it comes to you, and…”

“I don’t,” he confesses, his voice falling soft. 

He turns around with her, leaning his back against the wall and allowing her to rest against him. His hand curls from her back to her rib, moving higher until his thumb can move under the unhooked bra and touch the side of her breast. Somewhat patiently (which only makes her more impatient), he moves toward her nipple, the pad of his thumb finally strumming over the perked tip before his forefinger arrives as well, rolling and plucking. Her eyes grow heavy, and her need grows even heavier. 

The thought of swatting his hands away, pushing him over to that desk, enticing him until he’s hard and full and ready again (because she’s certain she can do it) so she can ride him to the delectable orgasm she can practically feel already crosses her mind. But she’s enjoying this, too, the tenderness, the casual progress and metered foreplay that is making her _ache_. 

He admits, “We’ve been together a few times...and each time, I still have no idea exactly how damn good you are. How is that possible? To be stunned and amazed each time?”

Words fail her, so when his touch tightens on her nipple this time, she sighs against him, her lips nearly on his, breast pushing against his hand to encourage.

“You saying you want to take me to brunch this time?” she teases, taking the hand that isn’t on her breast and sliding it over her hip, offering the direction she thinks he needs, hoping his exploration will continue since he doesn’t seem to yet understand the urgency within her. 

“I’m saying I want to make you brunch at your place. So we don’t have to get dressed. And afterwards, you can spend hours trying to redirect my actions while I get you off.”

She lets go of his wrist when he calls out her attempt to dictate what happens.

He looks cockier (god, how that looks sends a zing straight between her legs), and then he adds, “I didn’t tell you to stop. I kinda like it.”

“Do you?” she tries to fling back the same confidence.

“But trust me...I know what I’m doing.”

“Oh, I know,” she answers slinging a bold, unhidden, thoroughly suggestive compliment right at him. 

On a daily basis Castle talks, constantly (too much, really), but now when his words would give her something to work with, he offers only the most powerful look of want and desire that she’s ever seen. Her heart climbs toward her throat, pounding so loudly she hopes it’s masked by the baseline of the EDM that is blasting on the floor below. 

He slides down the wall until he’s seated on the cold, debris-speckled concrete. It surprises her that he pays so little mind to the conditions around them. This place is hardly five star (hell, a one star place might be a slight step up). Without a hint of demureness, she hikes her skirt and braces her boot heel on an upturned wastebasket left behind. She’s been dying to have his mouth back on her ever since the first time she had the pleasure.

“Trying to predict my next move, Detective Beckett?” he teases, although his hands are already on her thighs because not touching her would be just plain daft.

“Not predicting as much as hoping,” she suggests. She confesses as her fingers rest at the hairline at his neck, “Maybe encouraging.”

“No encouragement is required,” he adds, loving that her decisiveness and commitment to having what she wants doesn’t disappear into shyness when sex is involved. 

He pulls her panties to the side because she hasn’t taken the time to remove them (and this kind of impatient hunger is definitely hot). There is no gentleness as he tugs away the fabric, his nose nudging her cleft at the first possible moment. She presses her hips toward him with the same immediacy, her legs turning out to open her body. He takes only the faintest of laps, a dabbling to taste her as she cries out with a blend of excitement and impatience. 

He looks up, his chin still glancing against her, and he reminds, “If we were in your fantasy, the people in interrogation would have heard that.”

Her expression is irritated as she argues, “Not if the interrogator blasted music like this.”

_Hard to counter that. _

With her eyes she urges. With the tight line of her lips she shows her preparedness for disappointment. With her hand on the back of his head she tells him she doesn’t want him to go. Although not so much as a communicative gasp hits his ears. 

She has very real longing for this, for him, whether it’s spoken or not. That longing hooks him, draws him deeper into this. 

There’s no denying his enjoyment of the sought after taste of her on his tongue, the way the scent of her tickles memories of them before. The desire to tell her things (things that expose far more than carnal yearnings) pushes at his brain, begging for liberation. Fortunately his tongue is otherwise engaged. 

Her assertiveness is hot in any circumstances (at least to him), but it’s particularly titillating in times like this. 

“It really turned me on,” she admits a bit breathlessly as he pleasures her.

“What did?” he asks, his words barely intelligible because he doesn’t stop what he’s doing to ask. 

A high pitched gasp escapes her mouth as she feels him speak against her. “When you started getting hard on the dance floor.” Apparently she understood his question well enough.

He pauses only a second or two, not allowing words that may say too much before delving back between her legs and letting his tongue slide lazily along her entire slit. She moans throatily, and her fingers tighten against his scalp.

It’s clear she wants him to touch her, to slide a finger into her core, but he has his own plans. And what he’s doing already seems to be working her up very well without any additions.

After a few times together, he recognizes the signs that she’s close. Her breath changes, her body grows more rigid, she makes these little vulnerable sounds she tries to hide. And, god, she gets so very wet, crying out and pulling him closer when his tongue dips to her entrance for a deeper taste. 

Even while she orders without the need for words that he continue just like this, he feels a certain rebellious urge not to give in entirely to all of her demands all of the time. It might create unrealistic expectations of compliance.

He lowers her panties, slipping them down her legs, stretching the garment to get it over her boots. 

Pushing himself to standing, he brings her raised leg around his body, the sleek feeling of a tall leather boot in his palm. He takes the few short steps to the desk near them, and pushes a cardboard box from the surface that clanks loudly enough on the floor to tell him there was more in it than cardboard and dust. But he doesn’t care. Nor does she. And while she has a look of mild reprimand on her face, there is excitement as well. Anticipation. Urgency. 

His body had already begun stirring again by the time he lowered down in front of her, his erection growing while he tasted her, and now the sight of her on that desk, legs spread, welcomingly warm and waiting, and no amount of distraction or previous gratification could possibly prevent him from getting hard as hell now. _Thank god._

He fumbles around in the inner pockets of his coat while she strokes him to full readiness. But he’s fighting the diversion before him. Beckett’s knees are hooked over his hips, her feet pressing at the backs of his legs to bring him closer, and she rubs her slit against his cock, rocking her hips, keeping him locked in with her legs. It’s nearly impossible to function rationally (or responsibly) in these circumstances. 

He’s about to give up, to beg her to let him in anyway. 

_How in the hell did this need suddenly become so overwhelming and consuming again? _

The tip of his sex is nudging her clit, and she leans back, still moving against him, doing more to get herself off than he’s doing to help in the matter. She manages to find the condom, too, reaching into his coat like she’d put it there herself. He anticipates smugness, a comment about how he’s clearly the more pathetically tied up member of this party, but that’s not the look she’s sharing. She’s not battling him; they’re collaborating. 

And the moment he’s free to do so, his focus turns to her with the full force of his ravenous appetite. 

His eyes do not leave her face as he pushes beyond the slight initial resistance and makes room for himself inside her. Her defenses are nowhere to be found for the time being, and there is a closeness and sense of surrender that extends beyond the physical intermingling they share.

The first few times he enters her, he’s cautious, insistent and firm, attempting to drive her desires higher. She makes it clear she’s not interested in caution now (the woman’s expressions speak volumes her voice never mirrors), and once she’s made her intentions and interest perfectly clear, she wants what she wants _right now_.

There’s a scowl that emerges through her excitement as she tugs at his hips and presses his legs and does what she can to hurry things along, but he’s calling the shots for the moment. 

Burying himself deeply, he rocks within her for a bit, appreciating the cushioned vise tightness she holds him with. “Castle,” she urges, telling him to _hurry the hell up _with only one word. (It is amazing the number of meanings his name can have when she speaks it with various inflections.)

He complies, although not to the extent he knows she wants. She wants something rough and furtive, and he wants to luxuriate in the moment, the feeling, the connection. But then he’s already come tonight. 

“You’re gonna owe me one,” she notes seductively. 

“What?” he smirks back at her, enjoying the shared intimacy of what he believes is banter (which they share almost constantly) while he’s actually inside her (something they _should _share almost constantly), melding two things they do oh-so well.

“An orgasm. You already had one.”

He thrusts just a bit harder this time, watching the slight rebound of her body when they clash completely. “True. But do you recollect the number of times you came for me the last time we did this.”

Fully expecting argument, she surprises him. “I do,” she raises an approving eyebrow, “I _definitely _remember.”

He awaits the slap of a verbal takedown that seems destined to follow, but it’s a compliment, genuinely offered as praise.

“For the sake of argument,” he finally says, continuing with somewhat patient returns to her depths, trying like hell to keep himself together, “let’s say the counter starts tonight, and, by some odd circumstance I can’t even fathom, I only bring you to completion once…are you gonna give me the chance to pay my debts?”

She clearly isn’t prepared for this turn in the conversation. So she slings her arms around his neck and pulls herself up off the desk, supported only by him, and she starts to move as she wishes, taking things in the direction she's ready for, knowing it will scramble him. 

It does.

But part of him needs to know if this is it.

“How long this time?” he pushes with words while she drives their actions. “How long before this thing between us builds up, and we can’t take it, and we end up doing this again because we can’t stop?”

“You wanna talk or you wanna get laid?” she asks. And there’s no vitriol behind the question, it’s flirty, and she kisses him with tenderness that isn’t mirrored in the way her body claims his.

“I can do both.”

“God, you feel incredible,” she praises, neck craning, body tensing. 

And she’s so hot. She drives him completely wild, and he should just enjoy it. He should shut the hell up and let it go. But he’s an addict who’s already considering his next fix. 

“Six weeks? More? I don’t know about you, but I don’t think I can wait that long before—“ his words turn to a long groan as she milks his girth with her clenching core, and he can’t even speak. 

She’s controlling the distance between them, the depth of their connection on all levels, and the manner in which that connection expresses itself. 

So (when he's able) he carries her to the wall, holding her tight against it so she can’t move too much, but it also means he’s shoved deep inside her. 

“Kate…” he says, using her first name as he does only in moments that warrant it.

“What?” she asks, shaking her head, and he can’t tell if she’s just horny or if this whole thing between them overwhelms her. 

“How long?”

“I don’t know, Castle.”

“Don’t you like this? I like it. I_ really_ like it.”

“Of course I do,” she says like it enrages her. 

“I don’t want to stop.”

“I'll lose my job if we get caught. And then I won't be any use to you.”

He freezes for a second, completely. His breath stops. His body doesn’t move an inch. If his heart could stop, it would. The idea that she wouldn't know that she's more to him than research baffles him. _She knows that. Right?_

“Can we just…keep going? Please?” she asks, but this time she’s not looking at him. She drops her cheek to his shoulder, her fingertips resting at his neck and in his hair. 

He nods, taking her hand, kissing her fingers, then carefully finding her lips when he needs his hand to support her weight. 

And the sex that follows is epic. Again. (Yes...he was right, he’s had her before and he’s still stunned by how fantastic she is.)

This encounter, here and now, is seared into him forever. He already knows it. The passion between them is positively explosive, the pair scrambling for connection, muscles tense and thundering as bodies merge to the greatest degree possible. She’s loud, so loud, calling out her approvals in his ear, using his name (they both know the person they’re with is so much the reason why it is so damn hot). The furtiveness is animalistic. The excitement nuclear. The passion unrivaled.

He fucks her as she fucks him back, screwing against the wall until he wants to be able to access more of her, so he lumbers back to the desk. Her knees spread wide, allowing him such depth as his hands press down on her thighs and hers grab his ass to urge him on. But when she’s close, her eyes grow wild and wide, glued to his, her whole self pulling his body on top of hers.

He ends up on the desk on top of her, not sure how he got up there, but it’s because he’s chasing her, and she pulling him in. She whispers, “Oh my _god_, Castle,” the volume stolen from her lungs, and then the phrase (or some variation) repeats at ever increasing increments. 

There’s no point in holding back now. She gets so tight as she climaxes that it’s harder to move, locking him down and pulling him inward. As he reaches fulfillment just seconds later, it’s like a shot of concentrated perfection, the kind that leaves you breathless, weak, and elated. 

His hips don’t want to pull back, because he wants to hold those seconds for eons. 

Still on top of her, he kisses her, delicately, and when her forearm rests on the back of his neck, his tongue slides deeply into her mouth. She welcomes this kiss, her hands holding his head. She accepts the thoroughness of their connection (for now), mirroring the amorous expression of affection and, yes, appreciation. 

This is the kind of kiss that usually happens before sex. Maybe because he’s hoping this after-moment is also _before_ the next time. Which brings him back to his previous questions. The fact that it was so fulfilling doesn’t make him less interested in a follow up. It makes him want more: more of all of this, more of her, more of _them_. 

“So how long?” he insists, even though his voice sounds soft. “How long before the next time? This is too good to pass up. It’s self-defeating to fight it.”

“I could get fired. I wasn’t joking. No one can know.”

“I can work with that," he replies. (Clearly progress here will be one step at a time, but any forward progress is better than moving backwards). "Do you really want to stop?”

“No,” she confesses decisively.

“I don’t either. Lanie promised me you were going to eat me alive.” 

“What?”

“Her words, not mine. Apparently she seems to think you have some unresolved sexual tension that needs addressed. I’d like the privilege of being the person you resolve it with.”

She retreats into serious thought for a moment and says, “No messing around while we’re working a case.”

“Why would that matter—,“ he begins to argue, thinking that they could probably come to some pretty serious epiphanies while basking in the afterglow, but he stops short of voicing his disagreement. "Fine. Could be fun...celebrating every closed case."

This is a starting point, the spark that he hopes will light the bonfire. After all, she’ll probably be the one who won’t be able to hold back…and he’s more than willing to show her exactly why mingling investigation with pleasure can be half the fun. 


End file.
